


The Existence of Other Worlds

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Series: A Universe in the Corner of Your Eye [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Keith Grows Up in Night Vale, Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 08:33:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16573169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: The Voice of Night Vale is the voice of ALL Night Vale citizens. If you belong to the city, it will find you and hold you close and comfort you through the endless night. Keith knew it would be with him.Keith listens to the radio in space.





	The Existence of Other Worlds

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO AND THANK YOU 
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely comments! I love them all. 
> 
> Fun fact, I have a very, very hard time writing Coran, lol. He's a delight, but I struggle so much getting his voice right. But I was pondering how he's kind of Night Valeian himself and this scene thing came to me. 
> 
> Please do comment, I read and appreciate them all!

_“If you ever look at the sky, doubting the existence of other worlds, just know that somewhere a creature is looking up at its sky doubting you.”_

  * _Welcome to Night Vale_



 

            Keith had very few expectations going into space. For one thing, Night Vale children are taught from a young age to accept that life is a chaotic series of random happenstances we exercise a slim and tenuous degree of control over as sentient beings. Accepting that existence is the strangest, most stressful thing you’ll ever attempt and then moving forward with the appropriate shrug and “this might as well happen” could save your life someday.

            So no, when Keith was suddenly launched into space inside the head of a massive robotic lion, he didn’t really spend much time protesting.  By his standards it was by far the most normal thing that had happened to him since leaving Night Vale to attend the Garrison full-time.  While the others demanded to know “how is this happening?” and “Is this real?” and “who/what/when/where/how/WHY???” Keith simply shrugged and glowered into the distance where he saw violent destiny (metaphorically) approaching.

            But of all the new, strange and unexpected things Keith encountered after his violent expulsion from Earth’s atmosphere, one thing remained disarmingly consistent. The Voice of Night Vale.  His hometown radio broadcast following him beyond the limits of the known universe was not new, strange, or unexpected. It was, in fact, blessedly, perfectly predictable. The Voice of Night Vale is the voice of ALL Night Vale citizens. If you belong to the city, it will find you and hold you close and comfort you through the endless night. Keith knew it would be with him, which meant his Uncle Cecil would be with him, and Tío Carlos and Dana and Old Woman Josie and her angels-who-may-or-may-not-exist…

            Keith knows he will not be alone surrounded by strangers, Shiro, and the Void and that brings more comfort than he can possibly articulate. So he does not. He simply sits and waits for the broadcast to find him.

            He’s on the bridge watching Coran fiddle with…fiddly things? The speakers Allura uses to call them all to combat training at all hours of the day or night (which, really, Lance, you should know better than to wear pajamas that don’t even come with complimentary holsters and a nighttime weapons suite, Keith at least made do with his street clothes) begin to crackle and hum. Their humming sounds a lot like the opening lick to _Hotel California_. Keith finds that a little too on the nose for his tastes considering he is, technically speaking, trapped out here.

            And then, all at once, like the Glow Cloud (all hail) retreating after a particularly violent outpouring of animal carcasses, revealing the moon in all its radiance, Cecil’s voice emerges from the speaker system.

            _“Experts say that experts are lying, and in fact, have been failing to tell us the truth for some time, or so the experts say…WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE.”_

Keith’s sigh of relief is practically punched free of his chest. His eyes well with tears and he wants to reach out, reach out through time and space and radio waves and let his only living relatives hold him safe and warm in a place that actually makes sense for once.

            Coran looks up at the speakers quizzically, “I don’t remember them doing that before. I wonder if it’s the latest software update. I do hate when the castle auto-updates when I’m in the middle of things. It’s like having to reassemble a teleduv blindfolded with an off-tune symphony orchestra rattle-banging in your ears. Not a fun time for all.” He brandishes whatever tool is clutched in his fist at Keith as if this made a very serious and important point.

            Keith shrugs and refocuses on Uncle Cecil, who is apparently talking about him.

            “My beloved nephew Keith who is sometimes purple has been nominated to participate in The Blood Space War! A generous round of applause for Keith. Congratulations to our second most extraterrestrial citizen for winning mortal peril, extreme danger, and a chance to enter a potentially rigged lottery system for eternal glory and other cash prizes.  Just another day at the office, huh, Keith?”

            Cecil’s mellifluous voice sounds a little ragged around the edges, though, and Keith wonders if he could call Cecil right now on his cell phone and tell his uncle he’s fine. He really is. Things finally make sense again after years and years of nothing ever being how it should be. He’s not quite home, this strange castle in the air isn’t Night Vale, but this war is familiar and he wonders if maybe he was always meant to fight it, just like Tamika was always meant to fight Strex, and Cecil was always meant to speak to, and for, and of Night Vale.

            “And onto announcement,” Cecil’s voice declares, “The Whispering Forest would like to invite all interested parties to come join their choir. ‘Just come on down’ they murmured softly, ‘let us borrow your lungs and throats, and other internal sound-making organs to sing the song of our people. And by people, we mean this forest. Join us. You’re looking very lovely today, really. That shirt brings out your eyes just _perfectly_.’ Well, I, for one, will not be participating in that particular community event, as I am simply not made for arboreal endeavors, musical or otherwise.”

            Keith is smiling to himself now and curling into a contented ball in his chair.

            “Marcus Vanstan, Night Vale’s wealthiest and therefore most significant citizen, has declared that he just, doesn’t think clouds are real. He’s just not so sure they’re something he’s into these days. He has announced his intention to form a non-cloud society funding research into proving once and for all that clouds; are not, in fact, real. The Glow Cloud, (all hail), surprisingly, does not seem bothered by this. When questioned about Vanstan’s planned non-cloud society the Glow Cloud said ‘KNEEL IN OBESCIENCE PUNY MORTALS’ and presented this reported with an outpouring of squirrels. Which just goes to show you that even an almighty Glow Cloud isn’t above being the bigger person sometimes.”

            “Do you know anything about this, Keith?” Coran asks, breaking into Keith’s Night-Vale-induced reverie.

            “Huh?”

            Coran gestures vaguely toward the speaker, where Cecil is now waxing rhapsodically over the kazoo concert he plans on attending at Night Vale Community College next week once the temporary ban on wind instruments is lifted.

            “While I am personally not phased by much these days, I’ll admit, disembodied voices emerging from speakers where I’m fairly certain no disembodied voices resided previously is a bit unusual.”

            Keith winces, “It’s…it’s a thing, where I’m from. That’s my uncle, he has a radio show. His broadcasts tend to…find me.”

            “Hmm? How curious! I suppose your quintessence forms some sort of psychic link between the two of you?”

            “Uh. More like between him and the whole town.”

            “Really! Fascinating! I had a great-aunt who could do the same thing. Except for her it was a pack of – ” Coran says a word Keith isn’t sure he should even be able to pronounce given the Alteans’ apparently physiology, “- which really aren’t herd animals, so couldn’t quite tolerate sharing that much space, or sharing her for that matter!”

            Keith just nods, “Uh-huh,” he says because it seems like a pretty solid default.

            “And now for the Lost and Found segment!” Cecil chirps, “Found, one heart, in a box, still beating, buried deep in the earth as if it’s remover were attempted to hide their shame and guilt but ultimately failing to do so. We know what you have done. The heart knows what you have done. The heart beats for you. It will find you. It has already found you. Hold still, this will only hurt a moment... So! If you’re missing your heart – if you misplaced your heart – if you don’t quite trust the person carrying your heart around in their backpack, suitcase, or mobile vault not to pawn it at the soonest opportunity – stop by the radio station today! We may have your missing property.”

            “How convenient!” Coran declares, “I’ve always wanted to be able to remove vital organs from my body and store them somewhere else!”

            “Why?” Keith asks. It sounds like a lot to keep up with.

            “Why, for safekeeping, of course! And to clone myself if I ever need an extra hand with something!”

            Keith cannot imagine a situation in which having extra of yourself running around unsupervised is ever a good idea, but he lets that go. Maybe clones are as sinister as sandstorm-induced evil body doubles.

            The show continues, sliding into the weather, touching on the day’s death-defying crisis, brushing up against existential doubt before softly receding into anecdotes about Koshekh’s misadventures and Carlos’ team’s latest attempt to quantify, qualify, or at least explain a small fraction of Night Vale life. After a few moments Coran stops whatever he’s working on and just listens, head tilted to the side, moustache curving upwards like a fluffy orange smile. 

            Cecil signs off and Keith fidgets with the hem of his shirt and fights against the chasm of loneliness attempting to crack open his chest.

            Coran’s moustache wilts a little as the last strains of music fade away. “Is that all there is today?”

            Keith assumes he is being literal rather than existential. “Yeah, it’ll be back sometime soon. Probably tomorrow, but time isn’t really real all the time so it could be earlier. Or later.”

            Coran smiles, eyes crinkling up in the corners and sparkling. Keith hasn’t really spent much time with Coran, he realizes. Coran was always so bright and effusive and focused on, well, nurturing all of them in his strange way. And Keith’s not really used to being nurtured, per se.  He knows his family loves him quite a lot, that he has made the official list of people Cecil Gershwin Palmer would burn down the world for if necessary, but in Night Vale emotion is a strange blur of the soft and the savage and Keith isn’t sure how to handle people who express things differently, more gently, than him and his immediate family. Coran’s kindness frightens him a little, in a strange way. Keith’s always been the kind to get too attached too quickly, he’s heard it’s a family weakness, and he can’t stand the thought of his psyche latching onto this people in the middle of a war zone, especially when they throw around kindness and love like it comes cheap. He can’t afford to pay the price that comes with loss if it comes down to it.

            Lance is soothing, he thinks. He’s sharp and strangely antagonistic and Keith’s not entirely sure what his _deal_ is, but Keith can work with this kind of relationship. It’s not as scary and heavy and real as any of the other possibilities out there.

            “I like your uncle’s radio show,” Coran sighs, “It reminds me of…” he pauses and sighs again, eyes going distant and something slipping in his face just enough that Keith can see a shard of real and painful vulnerability. The cracks and fractures left behind by unimaginable loss. “Home, I suppose. Or maybe life before,” a vague gesture at everything and doesn’t that just sum it all up, Keith thinks.

            “Was Altea…” Keith can’t imagine Altea being run by layers upon layers of quasi-tyrannical shadow government and eldritch entities, but sure, maybe it was.

            “No, Altea was far more straightforward than your little desert community,” Coran says, “But it makes me think of all the places we went and all the things we saw, strange and beautiful, abstract and horrifying. The universe is a vast and unknowable place, number four, and your radio show reminds me of that.”

            Keith’s not so sure how sold he is on being called ‘number four’ but he understands what Coran is driving at. “Reality bends farther than you think it will,” he says, not sure what he’s saying or why but feeling like the words have meaning where they sit on his tongue.

            Coran smiles gently at him, “Too true, too true.”

            A soft, wordless tune hums through the speaker system like an echo of a song you once heard and forgot until this very moment and Keith thinks maybe he could have a home here too.             

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title is still from a Night Vale quote.


End file.
